


The Not-So-Secret Garden

by Red_Chapel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:19:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Chapel/pseuds/Red_Chapel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs Hudson just wanted a few flowers and a place to sit in the sun. But nothing is so simple when you have such friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Not-So-Secret Garden

It began with a thud and some cursing. It wasn’t that John had never heard the words before—any soldier had—but he hadn’t heard them, and certainly hadn’t expected to hear them, from Mrs Hudson.  
  
He stepped through the kitchen doorway and looked down the stairs, wondering what had prompted her to that kind of language. He could just see her feet and a cardboard box beside them on the ground floor.  
  
‘Everything all right, Mrs Hudson?’  
  
‘What? Oh! John.’ She peered up at him, face reddened from exertion and embarrassment. ‘I thought you were out with Sherlock.’  
  
‘I was’, he said, starting down the stairs. ‘But then he went haring off on his own, said he needed to ask some questions of people that “didn’t like too many visitors”.’ He stopped two steps above her, shaking his head.  
  
‘Oh, I wish he wouldn’t do that’, she fretted. ‘He’s so much better off when you’re with him. When I think of him all alone this past winter, chasing half the world over, meeting up with the worst kinds of people.’ She looked up at him, her anxious gaze turning heavy with pity. ‘Of course, we were all alone this winter, weren’t we?’  
  
Her question brought to him scenes that he had mostly buried since Sherlock’s return: barren rooms, frosted windows, frozen rain against smooth black stone. He manhandled those images aside, shook off their accompanying chill, and descended the last two steps to rest a hand on her shoulder. ‘We’re none of us alone now’, he assured both her and himself. ‘Now’, he continued more brightly, ‘what’s in this box?’  
  
‘Nothing’, she shrugged, utterly failing the attempted prevarication.  
  
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Sounded like a pretty loud thud for nothing.’  
  
She looked down at the box. ‘Well, you know. Just some things.’  
  
‘Need some help with it?’ he offered.  
  
Her inner conflict only lasted a moment. ‘If you don’t mind. It’s a bit heavier than I expected it would be.’  
  
‘No problem. Where’s it going?’ He hefted the box and angled himself toward her flat.  
  
‘Upstairs’, she pointed.  
  
John looked questioningly up the stairs. Up was all 221B. Farthest up was all his territory, his bedroom a small haven away from Sherlock’s bouts of mania and more trying violin recitals, and a closet across the hall where he stored the few things he wanted to keep but didn’t want to see or be seen.  
  
‘Upstairs?’  
  
‘Mm’, she nodded.  
  
John shrugged and settled the box in his grip. ‘OK.’  
  
She followed him to the sitting room door, then slipped past him to continue up the next flight, halting in front of the third door on this level—the one that concealed a narrow set of stairs going to the roof.  
  
He set the box down where she indicated. ‘That it?’  
  
‘Yes. Thank you so much, John. Why don’t you come down for some tea and biscuits?’ she asked with a tug on his sleeve. ‘I’ve got some of those chocolate-covered ones you like.’  
  
He smiled and let her lead him away from the mystery box. When he went to bed that night, the box was gone; she must have moved it when he’d gone to join Sherlock at Scotland Yard that evening. He assumed the contents had gone to the roof, considered briefly going up to see, but, deciding not to intrude on her secrets, he closed his door behind him and was soon asleep.  
  
Over the next week, Mrs Hudson made a number of trips up and down the stairs, sometimes with bags, sometimes with small boxes. Twice John saw that the door to the roof was ajar, and once he carried another large box up for her. Presumably everything had made its way to the roof and was not hiding just behind the door. John thought of asking, just to be sure, just to be certain that the way wasn’t blocked. With a flatmate prone to explosive and flammable experimentation, John liked to know the emergency exits were clear. However, Mrs Hudson seemed intent on secrecy, so he trusted her not to leave him to a fiery doom.

* * *

  
A Saturday afternoon found John and Sherlock in their sitting room, door swung wide and windows open to catch a bit of the early summer breeze. After Mrs Hudson made another of her clandestine passes up the stairs, John, curiosity growing, decided to get the detective on the case.  
  
‘Mrs Hudson’s got quite a project going, hasn’t she?’ he began.  
  
Sherlock barely paused typing on his computer. ‘I’m surprised it’s taken her this long. She did very much enjoy the one she had in Florida.’  
  
‘The one what?’ John asked.  
  
‘Don’t you know?’ Sherlock asked, turning to John. ‘I’d assumed you’ve been helping her to carry the heavier items.’  
  
‘Yeah’, he nodded, ‘but she seemed to want to keep whatever it all is a secret.’  
  
‘Oh, well’, Sherlock said, turning back to his laptop, ‘best not to say anything then.’  
  
John quirked his lips at the smirk he knew Sherlock wore.  
  
Two days later, Mrs Hudson rapped lightly on the flat door. ‘Woo-hoo. Anyone in?’  
  
‘Hello’, John answered, rising to greet her. ‘Come in.’  
  
‘Thank you. I wonder if I could trouble you boys to help me with a little something’, she said, a nervous finger tapping at her cheek.  
  
‘Sure’, he responded, setting down his beer. ‘What do you need?’  
  
‘I’ve got another heavy box that’s got to go upstairs, to start with. Then, well…’ She waved the tiny tool kit she kept in her kitchen. ‘“Some assembly required”’, she quoted.  
  
‘Of course.’ John smiled; finally the mystery was going to be revealed, it seemed. ‘Sherlock?’  
  
‘Busy’, he spoke from the sofa.  
  
‘You’re not busy’, John objected, slapping at Sherlock’s feet on the armrest. ‘You’re just lying there. Make yourself useful.’  
  
Sherlock tilted his head to glower at John. ‘I’m thinking.’  
  
‘You can think while carrying. Come on.’  
  
Sherlock huffed, considered a moment, then rose to join them. It was often easier not to argue with John, he’d found.  
  
Mrs Hudson led them to the street where there was an indolent driver leaning against a small lorry. He nodded to a long, low box projecting over the tailgate. ‘All yours’, he said, remaining firmly in his lounging position.  
  
John stood tiptoe to see the top of the carton. There was an image of a bench, slatted wooden seat, ironwork scrolling along its back, birds and flowers pictured around it. Sherlock was already pulling the box toward himself, sliding it nearly off the end of the lorry. They coordinated wordlessly to settle it between them, Sherlock pivoting so that John was left to walk backward to the door.  
  
As they reached the steps, John grumbled, ‘I hate being the one going backwards up the stairs.’  
  
‘Then you shouldn’t be so short. Short person always goes up the stairs first.’  
  
John stopped to scowl but had to move again as Sherlock continued to push the box forward and up, backing John quickly up the steps and through the door Mrs Hudson held open.  
  
‘Oi! Not so fast.’  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes but slowed. They continued up all the way to the outer roof door, silent but for the occasional grunt and Mrs Hudson’s tutting and clucking, the men careful in moving the box so as to leave no marks on her walls. As John emerged into the open air, he slowed to look around. He had been to the roof only three times before: once after first moving in, just to familiarize himself; once to help Sherlock in a surprisingly non-fatal experiment during a lightning storm; and once as they returned home after a futile search of a nearby building—sticking to the rooftops had been both prudent and practical at the time.  
  
He smiled widely when he saw what it was that Mrs Hudson had been working at. There were a half-dozen mid-sized pots holding an assortment of flowers in varied colours; several baskets of greenery waiting to be hung; and two tiny side tables, just large enough to hold a plate or a book. He grunted as Sherlock once again pushed the box against him, then snapped into action as he realized he’d stopped altogether, leaving the carton’s weight to rest fully on Sherlock, still a couple of steps below.  
  
‘Over here, please’, Mrs Hudson called, gesturing to the space between the two tables.  
  
‘Mrs Hudson, this is lovely. Why the big secret?’ John asked, setting down his end of the box.  
  
‘Oh, well… it’s hardly anything at all, just a couple of potted plants. Nothing for anyone to get excited about.’  
  
‘It’s charming’, he countered. ‘A brilliant idea.’  
  
Sherlock had set to prying the large staples from the box and got most of the pieces spread out while John made a circuit of the flower pots. ‘Well, John, are you going to wander around the roof all day or are you going to “make yourself useful”?’ he asked. He glanced at the sheet of instructions Mrs Hudson was pushing on him and waved it aside. Together, he and John made relatively quick work of assembling the bench, arguing only over who got to use the wrench and who was stuck holding the pieces for the other.  
  
When they were satisfied that it was firm and stable, John handed Mrs Hudson to her seat as a queen to her throne. ‘So silly’, she chided him, but the smile on her face as she sat and looked about her was worth a queen’s reward to a loyal subject.  
  
Sherlock flipped the wrench in his hand and tossed it to John. ‘I assume you can handle the basket hanging on your own.’  
  
‘Oh, the hooks and stands aren’t here yet’, Mrs Hudson interjected. ‘Back-ordered.’  
  
Sherlock noted the way she was examining the positions of the pots and made his retreat. John, slower to notice such things, spent another half-hour on the roof, shifting the pots and furniture until Mrs Hudson was satisfied. As he lifted and toted and pushed and pulled, John consoled himself with the knowledge that, although Sherlock had gotten away, _he_ was sure to get more chocolate-covered biscuits.

* * *

  
Within a week, the baskets had all been hung, some on free-standing hooks, others on brackets attached to the small structure around the stairwell. The latter had required a drill suitable for getting bolts into the brick. John wanted to rent something; Sherlock wanted to buy. ‘It’s certain to be useful again’, he insisted. John had shrugged and let him go, silently praying that Sherlock would store it in a closet and forget that he owned it; he’d done enough damage to the walls already.  
  
And then one evening, after making several passes by their door, Mrs Hudson came down and asked that they join her. They emerged from the stair housing to find her holding out half-filled wineglasses to them.  
  
‘I thought it was time to have a grand opening, as it were, for all that it’s not so grand’, she explained.  
  
‘Well I think it’s quite grand’, John said, accepting a glass. ‘Cheers.’  
  
‘I hardly think “cheers” is adequate for the occasion, John’, Sherlock noted dryly as he took his drink.  
  
‘You have something better?’ John prompted.  
  
Sherlock looked about, then raised his glass. ‘To the beauty of 221 Baker Street. And her lovely rooftop garden.’  
  
Mrs Hudson swatted at him, admonishing him to ‘Behave’, but she blushed at his words as well.  
  
They sat in the little garden’s centre, Mrs Hudson on the bench, Sherlock and John taking up the two folding chairs that had appeared across from it. John asked about the different flowers and the garden in Florida that Sherlock had alluded to. Sherlock fidgeted in his seat a few short moments, then stood to walk around and examine both the plants and whatever else it was he found to investigate in the gravel bed and cracks in the brick.  
  
‘Do any of our neighbours know what you’ve been up to up here?’ John asked. ‘Mrs Turner must be beside herself with curiosity, what with all the deliveries you’ve been getting.’  
  
Mrs Hudson grinned and laughed. ‘She is’, she stated proudly. ‘But I’m not telling her and don’t you, either.’  
  
John was surprised. ‘I’d have thought you’d invite her up, show the place off. You two always seemed friendly.’  
  
‘Friendly enough’, she allowed. ‘But I don’t dare let her see this; she’d want one of her own. And then we’d have that dreadful Mr Harrison and his loud music on the next roof over. Not to mention Joe and Andrew. I’m not against anyone being in love, but they’re always pawing at one another; it’s not decent.’ She leaned over and patted John’s knee. ‘Best to keep it private. More peaceful this way.  
  
‘And now’, she said, rising from the bench, ‘time for dessert.’  
  
John stood as well. ‘Let me get it for you. You sit there and enjoy the fruit of your labours.’  
  
‘You don’t know where everything is’, she pointed out. ‘But you can give me a hand carrying things up.’  
  
They descended together, John reappearing alone several minutes later carrying a tray stacked with biscuits and bowls and a container of sorbet. As he set the tray on the bench, he heard Sherlock behind him announce, ‘I see Mr Chatterjee has a new counter person at last.’  
  
John pivoted to see Sherlock standing on the knee-high parapet and looking down at the street below.  
  
‘Sherlock.’ The word was an urgent, broken whisper, but it brought the man’s attention. He looked back to see John frozen in time, eyes wide, face drained of colour, one hand half reaching for him. Realization lit his face, and he stepped back onto the flat of the roof. John exhaled loudly and shook his head, eyes tightly closed against an image he could never block. Looking back up, he pleaded, ‘Just, maybe don’t do that, OK?’  
  
Sherlock, with the grace to look chastened, walked away from the edge and toward his friend. He stopped close by John, his face firm.  
  
‘John—you know I’m not sorry for what I did. It was necessary.’  
  
‘I know you think it was.’  
  
After a moment’s pause, Sherlock added quietly, ‘I am sorry I made you watch. I should have let you get inside where you didn’t have to see. There were probably enough other witnesses…’  
  
‘What good would being inside have done me? I’d still have felt just as guilty.’ John wished the words unsaid as soon as they came out.  
  
Sherlock considered the word a moment. ‘You felt guilty?’  
  
‘Well what was I supposed to feel? Standing there on the pavement or running up the stairs or still back here at Baker Street, what _was_ I going to feel, Sherlock? My best friend was standing on the ledge of a six-storey building, and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to keep him from throwing himself off.’  
  
Sherlock was taken aback. ‘I thought you were just… angry or… sickened. You couldn’t have stopped me, John.’  
  
‘And you think knowing that would have made me want to any less? Would have made me not try?’  
  
Sherlock tilted his head to examine John, a hint of wonder in his eyes. ‘You always care.’  
  
John raised his eyes to Sherlock’s, jaw set. ‘Always will.’  
  
The click of Mrs Hudson’s heels on the stairs turned them both around.  
  
‘Here we are. Might as well use the good silver.’

* * *

  
Sherlock and John had Mrs Hudson’s leave to visit the rooftop garden whenever they liked, and they all spent some time there. Mrs Hudson herself most enjoyed the early afternoons, sitting among her few flowers as the sun bore down and warmed her through. John found it pleasant to take his morning cuppa there, it being an easy way to start the day. Sherlock sometimes joined him when he was up that early, but he was more prone to prowling about it in the moonlight; John occasionally heard him pass his door after he’d gone to bed. He waited to hear the return trip every time.  
  
Without discussing it, John and Sherlock seemed to agree that the garden needed expanding. Twice they negotiated their way up the three flights to the roof with small trees in large, round containers balanced carefully on a handcart. John, walking home one morning laden with fistfuls of shopping bags, found himself adding to his burden as he passed a flower shop displaying a rainbow of potted plants out front. Sherlock popped out to see someone that ‘owed him a favour’ and came back in a lorry with three large rose bushes, urns to transplant them into, and several heavy sacks of potting soil, all delivered by a smiling driver who couldn’t stop talking about the way the detective had saved his sister’s life, job, and reputation.

* * *

  
With each addition, Mrs Hudson’s smiles only grew brighter. She delighted in her boys’ offerings, repeatedly rearranging to put them in prominent positions.  
  
During one of these reorganizations, just after they had wiped the dirt from their hands and stood back to admire the new roses, their secret garden was to be revealed to another party.  
  
Sherlock, having seen the silver BMW pulling up across the street a moment before, leaned slightly over the edge and called down, ‘Lestrade! You’ve brought me something interesting, I hope.’ Lestrade looked up to the windows of 221B, then further up at the figure poised at the edge of the roof. His eyes bulgedand his breath caught in his throat. ‘Sherlock!’ he croaked out. ‘What— Jesus! Stay there!’  
  
John rushed to the edge to yell down, ‘Greg! It’s OK. Everything’s fine.’  
  
‘John? What the hell are you two doing up there?’  
  
‘We three, Inspector. We’ve a respectable chaperon’, Sherlock assured him. ‘No need to worry.’  
  
‘Just let yourself in. We’ll be right down’, John added.  
  
As Lestrade went through the front door, shaking his head and mumbling, John turned to Sherlock. ‘You might do everyone a favour and stay away from ledges for a while.’  
  
All three descended to the flat below, Sherlock and John to consult with a beleaguered-looking Lestrade in the sitting room, Mrs Hudson to bustle about the kitchen worrying over their lack of housekeeping skills. Lestrade apprised Sherlock of some developments on a current case, hopeful that the additional information would advance the detective’s theories. Sherlock listened closely, examined the offered photos, and pronounced it all ‘Useless.’  
  
Lestrade sank onto their sofa, looking defeated. ‘We’re never going to bust this gambling ring’, he lamented.  
  
‘You would if your so-called detectives could come up with some—’  
  
‘How about a drink, Greg,’ John interrupted. ‘Beer?’ He gestured with the glass in his hand. ‘Scotch?’  
  
‘Better not’, he replied. ‘Might end up back at the office tonight.’  
  
‘Coffee, then’, John said, heading for the kitchen.  
  
‘Thanks.’ Lestrade looked up, curiosity covering his face. ‘So, just what were you all doing up on the roof?’  
  
Sherlock, having already traded his scowl at John’s interruption for a deep interest in some reference book, ignored the question; John looked uneasy. ‘Um, well…’ he started.  
  
‘It’s alright, John’, Mrs Hudson said. ‘I think we can trust one of Scotland Yard’s finest with our little secret.’  
  
John grinned; Mrs Hudson had always had a soft spot for the DI, despite that they had first met during the Inspector’s contrived drugs bust on the night he and Sherlock had moved in.  
  
‘In that case’, John said, ‘let me show you around while the coffee brews.’  
  
‘Whose idea was this?’ Lestrade asked as he walked out into the late afternoon sunshine.  
  
‘Mrs Hudson’s. Apparently she had quite a backyard garden when she lived in America and she missed it enough to come up with this.’  
  
‘Huh.’ Lestrade looked around, taking in the various plantings and furnishings. ‘Nice. Certainly more attractive than your typical London rooftop.’ He walked around a bit, stopping to sniff at some of the blooms, a charcoal smudge amidst a riot of colour. As he sat on one of the folding chairs it tilted slightly, having just been moved and not firmly settled into the gravel.  
  
Catching and steadying himself, he grumbled, ‘Why is it these flat roofs always have stones on them? What’s the purpose of it?’  
  
John shrugged. ‘Beats me. I’m a doctor, not an architect.’  
  
Left briefly when John went to fetch the coffee, Lestrade leaned back as much as he dared in the small chair, eyes closed against the still-bright orange of the setting sun. He breathed slowly and deeply, willing away the tension that held his shoulders high and jaw tight. But then he heard a sound that caused his breath to still, his eyes to flash open, and his head to slowly, cautiously rise and look to his left.  
  
On the topmost branch of one of the trees there sat an olive-brown bird, restlessly fluttering its wings and tweeting out its high chirruping song. A smile worked its way onto Lestrade’s face as he sat awkwardly watching the little visitor. It flitted down several branches, trying each on for size as it went and singing from the ones it seemed to approve of, heedless of the audience it had captured.  
  
And then, at a sound from the stairs, it was suddenly gone. Lestrade sat up quickly to watch it fly overhead and toward the park.  
  
‘Did you see that?’ he asked John, just emerged from below.  
  
‘See what?’ John asked, trying to follow Lestrade’s gaze.  
  
‘A chiffchaff. Seems to like your trees.’  
  
‘Chiffchaff?’  
  
‘Small warbler. Song’s supposed to sound like “chiff-chaff”, but I don’t hear it.’  
  
‘I didn’t know you knew anything about birds’, John commented as he handed over a steaming mug.  
  
‘Just a little.  Ahhh.’ Lestrade inhaled deeply through his nose. ‘Now that smells like coffee, not like that crap we get down the Yard. Though not quite as good as yours’, he added with a quick sniff as John passed by with his own mug. ‘What’s that?’  
  
‘Splash of Bailey’s.’ John relaxed onto the bench. ‘So, you’re a… birder? Twitcher?’  
  
‘Twitcher? God no.’ Lestrade sipped at the coffee. ‘I can barely call myself a birder. Just…’ He shrugged. ‘I dunno. Learning a little something new.’  
  
John looked quizzical and waited for what Lestrade hadn’t said yet. Greg sighed.  
  
‘Remember that little excursion you two took to Devonshire last year?’ John nodded, recalling Henry Knight and demon hound he had asked Sherlock to investigate. ‘Well, one time when I wasn’t trying to keep tabs on Sherlock or intimidate the locals for you, I happened to be relaxing on a stone wall, watching a bird hopping around—not even really thinking about it—when someone came up and told me what kind of bird it was.’ At John’s persistent stare, he conceded, ‘OK, yes, the person was a woman.’  
  
John grinned. ‘Aha! Now that’s more the kind of bird watching I’d expect from you.’  
  
‘It wasn’t like that’, Greg protested. ‘She’s the one that started the conversation. And the flirting.’ He grinned, then sobered. ‘And since the divorce was already under way… I let her.’  
  
‘How come I never heard about her?’  
  
Greg shrugged. ‘Nothing came of it. We spent a couple days looking at the birds, had one good snog, then I came back to London, and neither of us ever bothered calling the other.’  
  
‘But you’re still watching birds. The feathered ones, I mean.’  
  
‘They’re kind of interesting, actually. And trying to tell some of them apart, especially those warblers— Well, I’m sure my observational skills will never be up to Sherlock’s standards’, he said, ‘but it’s good practice for keeping your eyes sharp.’  
  
‘I can’t think you get much chance for it, being stuck in London all the time’, John observed.  
  
‘You’d be surprised the variety of birds you get in the parks. Step on over to Regent’s sometime and take a close look around. Like as not, you’ll have more visitors from over there.’  
  
The two chatted for a while longer before Lestrade’s mobile rang, recalling him to Scotland Yard. As he stood to take his leave, John noted that, despite the call, Greg still looked much better than when he’d arrived: he stood straighter; his face was relaxed, not wary; he even seemed to be breathing easier.  
  
Lestrade poked his head in at the flat on his way down. ‘Sherlock, I’ll let you know if we get anything else on Warren.’ Sherlock didn’t move from reading his book, so he turned to Mrs Hudson. ‘You’ve got a fine thing up there, Mrs Hudson. Excellent idea.’  
  
‘Feel free to visit it any time, Detective Inspector.’  
  
‘Oh, I couldn’t just wander in—’  
  
‘Yes, you could’, she informed him. ‘I’ll get you a key so you can.’  
  
‘You can’t give him a key to our flat’, Sherlock insisted, suddenly attending to them both.  
  
‘And why not?’  
  
‘Because it’s our flat, not his.’  
  
Mrs Hudson waved him away. ‘Stop in whenever you like, Inspector.’  
  
‘Mrs Hudson!’  
  
Lestrade knew when to leave a room and a conversation, and he left both now without a word.  
  
The next day, Sherlock was starting up the stairs to 221B just as Lestrade was emerging from the hall to 221A. The two men stopped and stared at each other, Sherlock openly curious, Lestrade looking almost furtive.  
  
‘John already dropped off your key to you.’  
  
‘Yeah, brought me a bite of lunch, too.’ Lestrade continued toward the door.  
  
‘Then what were you doing with Mrs Hudson?’  
  
Lestrade’s face relaxed as he turned back. ‘You mean you can’t tell from the hem of my jacket or something?’  
  
Sherlock scowled. ‘I realize you’ve been a bit lonely since your marriage fell apart entirely, but must I really ask your intentions toward my elderly landlady?’ he challenged.  
  
Lestrade’s face went sour. ‘Ha. Ha.’  
  
Sherlock smirked, then turned to go up the stairs. A few steps up he asked, ‘And when should we expect delivery of the bird bath?’  
  
Lestrade almost looked to his jacket’s hem before staring up at Sherlock’s back. ‘How do you _do_ that?’  
  
Sherlock didn’t pause in his ascent. ‘Lestrade, please. You’re as obvious as a lark among falcons.’  
  
Lestrade watched him disappear around the turning of the stair case, then called out, ‘Wednesday!’

* * *

  
‘Good morning, John.’  
  
John did not stop on his way to put the kettle on—he had determined within moments of meeting him that Mycroft would not stop him in anything he wished to do—merely issuing a terse ‘Morning’ as he proceeded with his routine. It was all Mycroft deserved; far more, in John’s estimation. Just the thought of the man’s sheer idiocy and blindness in his dealings with Moriarty, the way he had imperilled his own brother—about whom he claimed to be worrying constantly—made John’s neck tense and his jaw clench.  
  
Mycroft rose from Sherlock’s armchair and crossed to the kitchen, a slight smile lingering with his assessing look.  
  
‘Still angry, I see.’  
  
‘Yep.’  
  
‘I did apologize to Sherlock, you know. Or didn’t he tell you?’  
  
Sherlock hadn’t told him, had said nothing of his meeting with Mycroft after his return. Didn’t matter anyway.  
  
‘Must I apologize to you as well?’  
  
John turned on his unwanted visitor. ‘Some particular reason you’re here and not somewhere else, Mycroft? Did you fart audibly and get thrown out of your club?’  
  
Mycroft’s lips twisted in disgust. ‘I was hoping to speak with my little brother’, he said, gesturing with the file jacket in his hand, ‘on a small matter that might interest him.’  
  
John moved to the refrigerator. ‘He’s upstairs. Wouldn’t recommend bothering him right away, though; you know what he’s like when he’s just woken up.’  
  
Mycroft considered that statement with regard to his knowledge of the layout of the flat, the apportionment of space, and his brother’s personal habits. Turning to the table, John stopped mid-way to setting the milk down, surprised to see the mildly puzzled look on Mycroft’s face. ‘Problem?’ he asked.  
  
‘Have there been… developments in your relationship with my brother that I should know about, John?’  
  
John grinned. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’  
  
Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. ‘I’m sure I know Sherlock a bit better than to think that he would be sleeping in your bed.’  
  
‘Then why ask?’ John growled.  
  
‘Hope springs eternal’, Mycroft replied airily. ‘So, if not in your bed, then where “upstairs”?’  
  
‘On the roof’, John responded, looking forward to Mycroft’s departure.  
  
Mycroft looked questioningly at John, but turned and left without another word.  
  
When he was half-way up the final flight of stairs, Mycroft heard Sherlock call out, ‘Not interested.’  
  
‘Actually, you are.’ Mycroft emerged from the open doorway and crossed directly to Sherlock, lying on the bench, knees hooked over one armrest. ‘McGuire’, he added, placing the file on his stomach. Sherlock quickly took up the file.  
  
As he scanned it, Mycroft made a single circuit of the pots and baskets, stopping before the recently added roses. ‘Rather like the ones Mummy had on the west end of the cottage in  Wickmere. Comte de Chambord, I believe?’  
  
‘You can’t find one of your own agents?’  
  
‘ _Former_ agents’, Mycroft emphasized.  
  
‘So he’s gone rogue. You trained him. Shouldn’t that help you to find him?’  
  
‘We are, of course, putting our best men on the job. But’, Mycroft pivoted to look at Sherlock, ‘as you’re the person most interested in seeing him convicted and locked away—’  
  
‘Actually, I’m the one who most wants him dead. You’re the one who wants to waste time with judges and juries.’  
  
‘I do hope you’ll be able to restrain yourself when you locate him.’  
  
‘Sure about that? Maybe it’s just easier to let me at him than to go through the fuss of bringing him in for a trial.’ Sherlock grinned at his brother’s exasperated sigh.  
  
Mycroft looked at the available seating: the folding chairs propped against the stair housing and two camp chairs that John had introduced to the setting. He shifted to lean on his umbrella. ‘Should I worry that you’re taking your leisure time on a rooftop?’  
  
‘Not at all’, Sherlock said flippantly. ‘I promise to call before I jump.’ And regretted the words the next moment when John appeared with their tea. He was silent as he took his cup, only studied John’s clouded face, the pursed lips and averted eyes.  
  
‘Anything interesting?’ John asked once he’d settled himself in a camp chair.  
  
‘From Mycroft?’  
  
John smiled absently at the taunt but noted the fact that Sherlock had closed the file Mycroft had brought and tucked it under his hip as he sat up to take his cup. ‘The younger McGuire, then?’  
  
‘Listening at keyholes doesn’t suit you, John.’  
  
‘Door was open and I’m not stupid. Where?’  
  
Sherlock sipped at his tea to stall while he considered. John, being the one who had delivered the fatal gunshot wound to McGuire’s brother, was the one this McGuire would take aim at first, should he have the opportunity to aim at all. Sherlock, of course, didn’t intend to give him that opportunity, so taking John with him on this particular case didn’t seem prudent. However, leaving John alone to face the man should he slip past Sherlock was even more unappealing.  
  
‘Lake District.’  
  
‘When do we leave?’  
  
‘I dare say we can make the 9:30 out of Euston.’ John nodded.  
  
Mycroft straightened. ‘You’ll let me know if there’s anything you need.’  
  
John smiled up at Mycroft as he walked past. ‘Accommodations with really soft beds for the next few nights?’ Mycroft nodded. ‘Oh, and not telling the bad guys anything about us or how we operate would be lovely.’  
  
Mycroft paused to absorb the hostility. It would be a long time before John forgave him, if he ever did; such was the man’s nature. For Sherlock’s sake, he would allow John his petty digs. He gave a last look about the garden and squinted into the morning sun.  
  
‘A bit bright. Too bad you can’t install larger trees for some shade.’ And with that, he was gone.  
  
When Sherlock and John returned, exhausted and triumphant, four days later, two boxes had arrived by courier, one tall and slender, the other wide and nearly flat. The note left with them read, ‘In lieu of larger trees.’  
  
The umbrella was simple to set up, requiring no more than settling the shaft into the heavy iron base and tightening the bolt against it. John cranked it fully open and seated himself in the shade it provided, drink in hand. Mycroft was still a fool and a prat, but he could be practical.

* * *

  
At the ringing of Sherlock’s phone, John hadn’t even waited for Sherlock to issue the command. He immediately reached inside the other man’s jacket to grab the phone and answer, thinking as he did that he ought simply to tell Lestrade to call him in future, at least when the Inspector had been told they’d be in the lab. Sherlock never would lift his eyes from a microscope if he could help it.  
  
‘Greg, anything?’  
  
Sherlock did take his eyes briefly from the microscope as John listened to Lestrade’s response. His glance flashed sideways as he felt John’s posture first relax, then tense again.  
  
‘How’s it look for him?’  
  
John eased slightly, but his lips remained tightly pursed.  
  
‘Yeah, OK, I’ll let him know.’ John ended the call and drew breath to speak.  
  
‘They’ve got Warren in custody, but an officer was wounded in the process’, Sherlock stated. ‘Wilson?’  
  
John barely blinked; he was too accustomed to Sherlock’s way of knowing everything to even bother at this point.  
  
‘Yeah, Wilson. Chest wound, but they think he’s got a good chance.’  
  
‘Too bad he didn’t take your advice about not trying so hard to prove himself’, Sherlock commented as he changed slides.  
  
‘Kids his age never do seem to realize their own mortality’, John replied. ‘Here’s hoping he’ll have plenty of time to think about it now.’ He slipped the phone back into Sherlock’s jacket. ‘Lestrade needs you down at the Yard to ID Warren’s driver.’ When Sherlock made no move from his work, John suggested, ‘Now?’  
  
‘When I’m finished.’  
  
‘Sherlock, this is nothing to do with the case, and they’ve got a lot of Warren’s people to process yet tonight. They don’t need you  holding them up.’  
  
‘I can’t leave in the middle of an experiment’, Sherlock complained.  
  
‘Those are fixed samples, Sherlock. They’re not going to crawl off the slides if you’re not here to look after them.’  
  
‘Have you forgotten that I’m still waiting for the chromatograph to finish?’  
  
‘I could take care of that for you when it’s done’, Molly offered. ‘Turn it off. Put the plates away.’  
  
John looked over to Molly on the other side of the bench. As hard as he tried not to and as bad as he felt about it when it happened, there were many times when he simply forgot that she was in the room. He knew he himself was a relatively plain and unprepossessing individual; Molly took that concept to new heights, sometimes becoming nearly invisible if you weren’t looking straight at her. It was a good thing, he supposed, that she wasn’t a criminal; it would take Sherlock to find her and bring her to justice.  
  
‘Ah, perfect’, Sherlock said, finally pulling himself away from the microscopic world he’d been engrossed in. ‘Leave the plates on my bench. But I’ll need to see the results right away; bring the print-out round to the flat after.’ Sherlock tidied a few papers and began to head for the door, never once looking at Molly.  
  
‘ _If_ it’s not too much trouble’, John stressed.  
  
‘Oh, it’s no trouble’ she assured him. ‘Your flat’s almost on my way home. And there’s that good curry place on the way. I could get myself a take-away for dinner.’  
  
‘I’ll have the jalfrezi and the masala dosa; John likes the Delhi Royal.’  
  
John took two quick steps to plant himself in Sherlock’s path. As Sherlock stopped short, John once again reached inside his jacket, this time withdrawing his bill-fold. As Sherlock looked on, annoyed and confused, John counted out several bills and walked back to hand them to Molly.  
  
‘Get yourself whatever you like on us.’ He paused, then handed her a couple more bills. ‘And take a cab. You don’t want to be carrying all that on a bus.’  
  
Molly gave a shy smile and took the money. ‘Thanks.’  
  
While John replaced his wallet, Sherlock asked, ‘On _us_?’  
  
John smiled and patted Sherlock’s lapel, then turned and left the room. Sherlock could only follow. He chose to ignore the giggle behind him.  
  
By the time Molly had reached 221B, Sherlock had managed to identify Warren’s driver, deliver two cutting remarks on the ineptitude of Lestrade’s newest DS, bring John to the familiar point of wanting to punch him in the face, immediately hail a taxi at the height of the evening rush, forever ingratiate himself to the driver of said taxi by diagnosing his pre-diabetic condition (John concurred and urged him to change his diet and see his doctor immediately), leave John to pay the fare (fair enough, John thought, as he’d given Molly all but Sherlock’s last pounds a few hours prior), and throw himself onto the sofa with all the drama of a diva after her third encore.  
  
It was John who loaded a tray with plates, flatware, glasses, and a bottle of red wine, bearing all to the roof before coming back down just in time to let Molly in and help her to carry her burdens up the stairs. When she would have stopped on the first floor, John said, ‘It’s looking like a fine night. We’ll eat on the roof.’  
  
‘The roof?’  
  
John poked his head into the sitting room. ‘You’re dinner’s going upstairs, Sherlock. Get off your arse and come eat.’  
  
When Sherlock did not so much as twitch, John added, ‘Your lab results will be _under_ your dinner.’  
  
Sherlock still didn’t move, but John knew he had said enough and so turned to direct Molly up the stairs with a nod of his head. ‘We always eat on the roof if the weather’s nice these days. If not for London’s interminable supply of rain, we’d eat there every night. Never have to worry about watering anything, though.’  
  
Molly hesitated, looking uncertain. ‘Did you… want me to stay?’  
  
‘Unless you’re in a hurry to get home.’  
  
Molly shrugged. ‘No. Sure. Thanks.’  
  
Her confused look persisted until she walked out onto the roof, at which point it turned to open delight.  
  
‘Oh! Oh, it’s lovely. I never knew there was a garden up here! It’s beautiful. Oh, did you plant all of this yourself? Did Sherlock?’ At that thought, she looked surprised at herself for thinking it, and John chuckled.  
  
‘Oh, no.’ John set the take-away bags on the low table that had appeared between the camp chairs and the bench. ‘Well, he actually did help with the roses.’  
  
Molly turned to gaze at the bright pink blooms, reaching to run a finger along the soft petals. ‘They’re lovely. So, has this always been here?’  
  
‘Mrs Hudson just put it in this year.’  
  
‘Wow. You must pay a lot in rent. Some of this looks pretty fancy. Oh. I mean, I don’t want to know— It’s not my— Whatever Mrs Hudson wants to do with her money. Er—’  
  
John handed Molly a glass of wine, hoping it would help to remove the strained look on her face. ‘It’s actually been something of a collaborative effort,’ he explained. ‘Mrs Hudson started out with the bench, a few pots and baskets. I brought some more, Sherlock got the roses, he and I went in together on the trees. The hammock arrived two days after I told him he _couldn’t_ bring the sofa up here, even seasonally. Greg and I both got some chairs. Oh, and the bird bath is from him, too.’  
  
‘Detective Inspector Lestrade gave you a bird bath?’  
  
‘Mm-hm.’ John had piled a plate with various items and now eased himself into a camp chair to enjoy it all. ‘Help yourself to anything you like. The _thali_ ’s always huge, and Sherlock never eats all of his order, anyway.’  
  
Molly continued enthusing about the garden’s features as she took tiny portions of a half-dozen dishes onto her plate, then sat on the bench across from John and began to eat. Sherlock, as if knowing just how long her chatter would last, arrived a moment after she took her first bite.  
  
He grabbed his jalfrezi and a fork on the way by and roamed the edges and corners of the roof as he ate. Molly noted how John’s eyes never quite left Sherlock and noted, too, how Sherlock never walked anywhere that John couldn’t easily see, but she said nothing of it, only commented on how tasty the food was and how beautiful the garden.

* * *

Mrs Hudson was resolved: she was having a party. She didn’t want to hear excuses about cases, or experiments, or workloads, or any other such nonsense. Saturday 5 pm everyone was to be on the roof and having fun.  
  
Although Sherlock was entirely lacking in enthusiasm, John very much liked the idea. He was not currently seeing anyone to invite, but that would be no matter; he would be spending an evening in the company of dear friends. And Mycroft, potentially. Mrs Hudson, seemingly determined to make the Holmes brothers a family, had insisted on inviting him.  
  
And so, the evening before the party found John in the kitchen mumbling over a recipe brochure and writing down what he needed from the shops to make home-made ice cream.  
  
‘Think we ought to try making two batches?’ he called to Sherlock, sorting through case notes at the desk. ‘We could do one in the morning and put it in the freezer, then do the other when everyone was here. That way we’d have two flavours.’ John rose to stand in the doorway. ‘Or just go with vanilla and lots of toppings?’  
  
‘Vanilla. Anything else isn’t ice cream, it’s a travesty.’ Sherlock glanced at John, turned back to his papers, then stopped to focus again on him.  
  
‘Well, we don’t want to serve our guests a travesty’, John said. ‘Vanilla it is. What do you like for toppings?’  
  
Sherlock crossed to where John leaned against the door frame, drink in one hand, shopping list in the other. As John looked questioningly up at him, Sherlock took the glass from his hand and stepped back to look at him.  
  
‘What? My hair standing up funny or something?’  
  
‘Just reminding myself what you look like without a drink in your hand.’  
  
All levity left John’s face as he asked quietly, ‘And just what do you mean by that?’  
  
Sherlock opened the kitchen cabinet closest to hand and reached up to the top shelf to bring down a single shot glass.  
  
‘Remember this? Probably been a while since you’ve seen it. One of the few things you brought with you when you moved in. Or how about this one?’ Sherlock placed another glass on the counter top, nearly as short, but broader, slightly flared at the top. ‘I think this was right after Moriarty introduced himself. Couldn’t really blame you at the time. And then there was this set.’  
  
‘That set was a gift’, John interjected when he saw the whiskey glass and where Sherlock was going.  
  
‘That set was purchased with a gift _card_. Slight difference there. Then there were the wine glasses—“for entertaining”, you said—and then the hi-balls, the beer glasses.’ As he mentioned each, he placed an example in the row, neatly lined up from smallest to largest. On the end he placed the glass he had taken from John’s hand, a generously-sized, generously-filled snifter. ‘This is what you were drinking out of when I got back.’  
  
‘If you didn’t break so much glassware—’  
  
‘As you can see, they are all perfectly intact. I would break every one of them if I thought it would slow you down, but you’d probably just swill it straight from the bottle.’  
  
John drew a deep breath and blew it out, attempting to calm himself. ‘They’re just glasses, Sherlock.’  
  
‘They are a bar graph, John—pardon the pun—showing just how your consumption has increased over time. How much more obvious do I have to make it? Do I have to line up the bottles, too?’ Sherlock kicked at the cabinet by his legs, then whirled around to pace the short length of the kitchen.  
  
‘You’re one to talk.’  
  
‘As a matter of fact, I am! I know, John. I’ve been there. I know _exactly_ what I’m talking about.’ The sudden rage that had brought Sherlock back to loom over John, shouting down at him, passed as suddenly as it had come. He picked up the smallest glass and twisted it in his fingers. ‘I remember what you said the first time I saw you using this. “If you need more than a shot, you don’t need it.”’ He set it back down in line with its fellows. ‘How much more do you need, John?’

* * *

It was just after 11 pm when Sherlock went up to the roof. John’s silence had lasted just long enough to worry him. When angry, John could be explosive, or he could be silent, but it was only the silent version that could worry Sherlock.  
  
The question he had put to John had needed asking and so he had finally asked it, knowing full well how badly it could—indeed, would—be taken. He had, after all, heard the same question just a few years ago from someone he grudgingly granted was probably as concerned with his life as he was with John’s.  
  
John’s silence had begun immediately after the question, which Sherlock actually took as an encouraging sign. It showed that John realized there was no good answer, that he wasn’t simply going to shout out denials, and that he had started to think. However, although certainly not incapable of a good think, John seldom spent much time on them. He assessed an issue, made a decision, and then got right to acting. By now, he should be done thinking and into acting, but his only action had been to move from his room—his first point of refuge—to the roof. It was time for a visit.  
  
Sherlock expected to find John in his camp chair, perhaps Lestrade’s recliner, but he was in neither, occupied none of the seating in the garden. He knew a moment of icy panic in his chest before he heard a shifting of gravel from behind the stair housing.  
  
‘Don’t worry’, John said, rough voiced. ‘I promise to call before I jump.’  
  
Sherlock circled the structure and looked down at where John sat, leaning against the wall, rolling the shot glass back and forth in one hand.  
  
‘Well, I think you are generally regarded as the polite one.’  
  
‘And you’re generally regarded as the addict.’  
  
Sherlock walked to the edge of the roof and sat on the parapet facing John, watching him for several long moments. John continued to roll the glass slowly between thumb and fingers, staring at it, never looking up at the man studying him.  
  
‘I used to like Mycroft’, Sherlock began. ‘He gave me my first chemistry set, listened to me practice the violin, and let me read all of his school books.’ He paused, then added quietly, ‘He might just have been my entire world until I was eight years old.’  
  
John looked up at that. This was nothing he had expected to hear from Sherlock, ever, but especially not now. This was no way to start a lecture on the evils of drink. When it seemed he wouldn’t elaborate, John asked, ‘What happened when you were eight?’  
  
‘Mycroft went to university.’  
  
‘You must have missed him’, John said.  
  
‘I hated him. He’d abandoned me, left me all alone in that house.’ Sherlock stopped, seemed to swallow any other words he might have spoken. He took a deep breath and started again. ‘I don’t think I could have been Mycroft. I couldn’t have been the first born in that house with no buffer— I never got on with my father. Mother was kind but too… average.’  
  
John considered what Sherlock was really saying. ‘Mycroft was the only one that understood you?’  
  
‘Well, he was certainly the only one that I wanted to spend any time with. And then he was gone. I was brilliant, but I was also eight years old. So, I hated him and wanted to hurt him. Never did get past that.’  
  
‘What did you do?’  
  
‘Oh, left snakes and lizards in his room when he visited on holidays. Learnt to play any song that he’d ever expressed a dislike for. Crashed his first car.’ He grinned. ‘Impressed the local constabulary with that one; they had some quaint notion that a twelve-year-old boy couldn’t do so much damage. Of course, I also discovered ways to use his concern for me against him: nearly drowned myself when he took me swimming, used the third chemistry set he gave me to blow the roof off of the gardening shed while I was in it, and eventually started using cocaine regularly.’  
  
John snorted. ‘You think I drink because I hate Harry?’  
  
‘I think you drink because you want to prove you’re not your father.’  
  
John looked up sharply. They had never discussed so much of their respective families as Sherlock had just disclosed. All John knew of Sherlock’s family was through his contact with Mycroft; all Sherlock knew of his family was what he’d deduced about Harry the day they’d met and what she had revealed in comments on his blog. Or so John had thought.  
  
‘You hate your sister’s drinking, but you pity her for her weakness. You hated your father for both the drinking and the weakness.’  
  
John breathed deeply, trying a second time today to calm himself at Sherlock’s words. ‘That really isn’t something—’  
  
‘He was weak and common and stupid. He lied, he stole, he hit your mother, he hit you, and when he died in a jail cell, he left you all with nothing but lives made better for his absence.’  
  
John squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears he refused to shed and tried to swallow around the painful lump in his throat. Sherlock never played fair, but this was beyond even his usual bounds.  
  
‘You drink because he did. You drink to show the world that a man can have a few and not be what he was. Years after his death you’re still trying to prove that you’re the better man, even to the point of risking this, just to show that you’re not that weak, that you won’t become the monster he did.’ Sherlock paused at a convulsive sound from John’s throat. ‘John, you _are_ the better man, the stronger man; you have nothing to prove. You could never be what he was. But you could end up as someone you don’t want to be.’  
  
He watched as John pressed the heel of one hand against his forehead and worked to steady his breathing. In the hours between his question and going to the roof, Sherlock had been thinking even harder than John had. The question had shocked John into thinking, so he had decided to follow up with an even greater shock. Now Sherlock sat motionless, still on the parapet, waiting to see if his gamble would pay off—if the shock would work in his and John’s favour or if it would only anger John into a further retreat.  
  
A terrible fifteen minutes passed. John’s breathing was steady, his shoulders had stopped shaking, but he hadn’t yet looked up or spoken. Sherlock mentally charted the parabolic curve of his increasing worry. It hadn’t worked. John was shutting him out. That couldn’t happen.  
  
‘John.’  
  
With no warning, John hurled the shot glassand it shattered against the bricks inches from Sherlock’s legs.  
  
‘I suppose you know where I got that, too’, he rasped out.  
  
Sherlock looked down at the shards sprayed across the stones. ‘Actually, no.’  
  
John finally looked up. ‘It was his. _That_ was all he left me. That and the life made better by his absence.’  
  
‘I don’t suppose you want any help breaking the rest of them’, Sherlock offered.  
  
‘Don’t want to use them for experiments?’  
  
Sherlock pretended to consider. ‘Mm, might be interesting to throw them at various surfaces, study shard formation and patterns of scatter.’  
  
John half sighed, half chuckled. ‘I meant for putting liquids into.’  
  
‘We can fill some with liquids before throwing them.’  
  
John shook his head, took yet another deep breath. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Let’s smash them all.’

* * *

  
John knew form experience—with Harry—that a plan made and not acted on was no plan at all, but he also knew that midnight was no time to start smashing glassware when you had near neighbours, and so he had only packed up the glasses that night. It was barely an act at all, but it was enough to make him believe that the action would continue.  
  
On rising late the next morning and noting that Sherlock had already left the flat, he ate a brief breakfast standing up and went straight to work on preparations for the party. After a quick shop, he went to Mrs Hudson for his duties. She had him carrying to the roof what seemed like the entire contents of her kitchen: serving ware, glasses, plates, two folding tables, an assortment of candles and lanterns, even a half-size refrigerator that he then had to run extension cords to from his bedroom.  
  
Through all of this, Sherlock never made an appearance. Mrs Hudson said she’d heard him leave early but had no idea where he’d gone. ‘He had better not think he can miss this party’, she said. ‘I told him. No excuses.’  
  
‘I’m sure he’ll be here, Mrs Hudson’, John assured her. ‘He knows better.’  
  
And although John didn’t think that Sherlock would disappoint Mrs Hudson, he still thought it best to send him a reminder. Leary after last night's conversation of sending anything like a worried ‘Where are you?’, he kept it simple: ‘Don’t forget the ice.’  
  
A minute later, he had a response. ‘Can’t bring ice. Hands full. S’  
  
‘But yet you can text.’  
  
‘Not the one typing. S’  
  
‘Then get your typist to carry the ice.’  
  
It was ten minutes before he received the reply: ‘Will arrive in 25  mins. Bringing ice and cold apiarist. S’  
  
John considered that message for three seconds before determining that it wasn’t worth trying to figure out.  
  
A half hour later, Sherlock stood in the foyer with five bags of ice and a shivering woman. John took a moment to appreciate Sherlock’s apparent contribution to the party, a tall red-head with dazzling green eyes, and suddenly found himself wondering just what an apiarist was.  
  
‘Professional bee-keeper, John’, Sherlock informed him, dropping a box of books amid the bags of ice.  
  
‘Bee-keeper?’ John asked, an interested smile doing battle with confusion on his face.  
  
‘Hi, I’m Jessica’, she said, offering her hand. ‘I’m—’  
  
‘—just here to take a quick look at the roof, see if we have enough space’, Sherlock interjected. ‘You can go right up’, he told her, placing a firm hand to her back to all but push her up the stairs. He turned to John to suggest, ‘Shouldn’t you be getting the ice into the ice cream or something?’ then moved to follow her and, John was sure, keep him from following her.  
  
‘The ice doesn’t go in the ice cream, it goes… around it. To freeze it. And this is about five times more ice than we need.’  
  
‘Well, you didn’t say how much’, Sherlock groused as he strode up the steps. 'You can keep the drinks cold with the rest of it.’  
  
‘I already hauled a refrigerator up to do that’, John called up to Sherlock’s back. ‘By myself, since there was no one here to help.’  
  
‘So use it to keep the foyer cold.’  
  
John sighed and looked around at the bags of melting ice, muttering, then called out, ‘You could at least have taken a bag up with you!’

* * *

  
Molly was the first guest to arrive, carefully tucked into a sundress that accentuated what she had and forgave what she didn’t. Mrs Hudson claimed her to give her a full tour of the garden, since she had not been on hand to explain everything when Molly had first seen it, and she was eager to give someone a grand tour. While they were still at the row of baskets lining the stair housing, Mycroft appeared. John braced himself to be something like pleasant to him, for Mrs Hudson’s sake. Then he saw the look on Sherlock’s face and just stared.  
  
On seeing Mycroft, Sherlock looked—if John had to put a word to it—lost. But that was not a word that made sense when applied to Sherlock, and it wasn’t quite the right word anyway. Whatever there was in his look, Mycroft noted it, too, but he turned from Sherlock and smoothly interjected himself into the ladies’ conversation, thanking Mrs Hudson for the invitation.  
  
Lestrade arrived last, immediately asking Mrs Hudson’s forgiveness for being late, but he couldn’t make London’s criminals take a day off, not even for her.  
  
‘Oh, you’re just in time, Detective Inspector. I was about to show Molly the birdbath you brought us. I don’t suppose you’d care to show her yourself?’  
  
John watched as she gave them both a shove in the right direction, physically as well as verbally. Considering that the birdbath was on the opposite side of the garden from their current position, it was an obvious contrivance, but Mrs Hudson seemed content with obvious. From the look on Lestrade’s face, so was he.  
  
‘And be sure to tell her about all those whitecaps and blackthroats we’ve got.’  
  
‘Ah, those are blackcaps and whitethroats’, he corrected her.  
  
‘Yes, well, whatever. Tell her all about them.’  
  
While Lestrade obliged Mrs Hudson and she and Mycroft moved to discuss the roses, John assembled a plate from the vast array of finger foods on offer. Having carried every last one of them up three flights of stairs entirely by himself, he was determined to get his share. Well-provisioned with canapés and a tall glass of iced tea, he joined Sherlock where he had settled in Lestrade’s recliner. He relaxed into a chair and invited Sherlock with a gesture to partake.  
  
‘All right?’ he asked.  
  
‘Don’t let my prone position lead you to think I’m inviting psychoanalysis, John.’  
  
Obviously, Sherlock had seen him staring.  
  
‘So what’s with the apre—per— bee-keeper?’ John tried, setting a tiny berry tart on Sherlock’s hands where they lay folded over his stomach.  
  
‘Apiarist. She’s going to help me set up hives next spring.’ Sherlock popped the tart into his mouth whole. John stopped with a similar tart mid-way to his mouth.  
  
‘Bee hives? Up here? On the roof?’  
  
‘Of course on the roof. Where else?’  
  
‘Up here?’ John repeated. ‘Just when it’s all nice and you can come sit and relax a bit?’  
  
Sherlock sighed. Of course John was opposed to the bees.  
  
‘They won’t sting you. They just want to be left alone to make their honey.’  
  
‘Do we have enough flowers to make honey?’  
  
‘We have an entire park next door. And we won’t have that many bees. Just a small, healthy colony.’  
  
John ate his tart, then asked, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve asked Mrs Hudson if she wants bees swarming around in her garden.’  
  
‘She’ll love them. Free honey for her tea.’ Sherlock stole a miniature egg roll from John’s plate, wondering if he would have to invite Jessica back to bring John around.  
  
‘And just who’s going to take care of these bees?’  
  
‘Good God, John. You sound like my mother the year I asked for an Australian Water Dragon for Christmas.’  
  
‘You had a pet dragon when you were a kid?’  
  
‘No. She wouldn’t get it for me’, he lamented. ‘Wouldn’t even let me spend my own money on it.’  
  
‘Your mother sounds like a very smart woman. Why do you want bees anyway?’  
  
‘Would you rather I got a Water Dragon?’  
  
‘You don’t still want one of those things, do you?’ Mycroft asked from a few paces away.  
  
‘Depends. Are you still afraid of them?’ Sherlock grinned wickedly at his brother for a moment before his face flashed through the odd look from earlier then settled into annoyance. ‘Are you here to support John in the anti-bee coalition?’  
  
‘Actually, John’, Mycroft said, turning to him, ‘you’d probably be better off with the bees. You’ll be sacrificing less floor space.’ He turned and walked back to the garden’s centre to attend to Mrs Hudson.  
  
John looked curiously after him, then shifted his gaze to Sherlock just as the man was reaching to steal another egg roll. He never could tell what the brothers were talking about, even when he understood the words.  
  
Mrs Hudson took the glass of lemonade Mycroft handed her and checked over all the items set out on the folding tables, quite satisfied with her work. A glance toward the birdbath left her further satisfied: Lestrade and Molly were conversing animatedly, their talk occasionally punctuated by his attempt at a demonstrative bird call. She relaxed into one side of the conversation chair and closed her eyes to listen to the voices around her and the city beyond.  
  
When she heard Lestrade offering to get Molly a drink, she opened her eyes to see them both angling themselves toward the little buffet. She gestured to the other seat in the chair, saying, ‘Why don’t you come sit with me, Mycroft. You’ll be more comfortable here, I’m sure.’  
  
Mycroft nodded from his place on the bench. ‘Thank you; this is fine.’  
  
‘And when was a Holmes ever willing to settle for fine when better was to be had? Look, this chair’s brand new. It was just delivered yesterday. Nice soft cushions, too.’  
  
Sherlock, coming to refill John’s plate, noted, ‘Mycroft has ample natural cushioning, Mrs Hudson. Save the cushions for someone that needs them.’  
  
Mycroft never took his eyes from his drink as he commented, ‘As a matter of fact, I think I will join you; this bench is a bit hard.’  
  
Mrs Hudson smiled and hurried to offer Lestrade and Molly drinks, setting their glasses on the tables to each side of the bench. The two happily sat down together.  
  
‘Sherlock, dear, help me get some more drinks out.’ Before he could protest that there were plenty of drinks on hand, she gave him a firm push toward the stair housing where the refrigerator sat. ‘You know’ she started quietly,’ you might try being nice to your own brother once in a while. This is supposed to be a fun evening.’  
  
‘I got him off of the bench you wanted Lestrade and Molly to sit on in hopes that they will begin a romantic attachment that you can then take credit for, didn’t I?’  
  
Mrs Hudson’s look of surprise quickly turned to exasperation, then hurried into a sly smile. ‘It’s obvious he’s attracted to her, and she’d be silly not to like him, a man like that and good-looking, too.’ She paused and gave him her sternest look. ‘Don’t you dare interfere if it goes the right way.’  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and delivered the drinks to the table.  
  
Lestrade was commenting, ‘Kinda nice how we’ve all added a little something to the place.’ Everyone took a moment to appreciate the variety of flowers and furnishings about them. In the silence, Mycroft noted, ‘Except Miss Hooper.’  
  
Molly shifted uncomfortably. ‘Oh. I was going to—’  
  
‘Don’t bother explaining yourself, Molly’, Sherlock interjected.  
  
‘Molly brings a perfectly lovely gift every time she visits’, Mrs Hudson asserted.  
  
Molly looked confused. ‘I do?’  
  
Mrs Hudson said, ‘It’s called a smile, Mycroft Holmes, and you’d be better off in life if you got a real one of your own.’  
  
Mycroft looked surprised by the admonishment, allowed a false look of chastisement to flicker over his face, then put it aside for an honest look of apology in Molly’s direction. Molly continued to blush at the attention, which only made Lestrade’s gaze more fondly doting.  
  
John rose and joined the company in the garden’s centre. ‘I was thinking, next year we could build a few raised beds for vegetables, have our own victory garden.’  
  
‘Excellent notion’, Sherlock said. ‘It will give the bees more to do.’  
  
‘Do bees get bored?’  
  
‘What bees?’ Mrs Hudson asked. ‘I can’t say as I’ve seen many around.’  
  
‘That’s because honey bees are in decline’, Sherlock explained. ‘But not to worry; we’ll have six frames next spring, a guaranteed healthy nucleus.’  
  
Several voices asked, ‘Frames?’ ‘Nucleus?’ ‘Where are you getting these bees from?’  
  
‘Bee breeder I know. She was just here to look over the place and says we have plenty of space.’  
  
‘Bees? On my roof?’ exclaimed Mrs Hudson. ‘Is that what that woman was here for? I thought she was a client. Or maybe one of John’s girlfriends that you were chasing away.’ Sherlock grimaced at the thought of another John Girlfriend. ‘You’re buying bees from her?’  
  
‘In a manner of speaking. I helped her find a missing relative a few years ago so now she—’  
  
‘—owes you a favour’, John cut in. ‘Of course.’ He was beginning to think that Sherlock never paid for anything except cabs, and he paid for half of those anyway.  
  
Sherlock smiled. ‘Precisely.’  
  
The others exchanged glances—concerned, confused, amused, long-suffering—but in the end, no one said another word. After all, if Sherlock wanted bees, Sherlock would have bees.  
  
It was over two hours later that John, laughing heartily at one of Lestrade’s tales from the rugby pitch, suddenly stilled. Sherlock wasn’t there.  
  
‘Sherlock’, he called out. The laughter drifted away as everyone noted John’s tension and looked around. John looked as if he would call again, but then said quietly, willing away their attention, ‘Be right back.’  
  
They met on the second floor landing. John began to smile when he saw the violin case Sherlock carried, while Sherlock’s expression darkened. He had seen the look that had preceded the smile, the look that John wore too frequently since Sherlock’s return.  
  
‘I suppose’, he said, ‘I should be grateful you don’t listen at the door to hear if I’ve fallen in the shower.’  
  
‘How do you know I don’t?’  
  
‘No footprints pressed into the carpet outside the door.’ After a beat, they both broke into giggles.  
  
‘Listen—’ John began.  
  
‘I intend that you shall’, Sherlock said, saluting with his bow and stepping past John.

* * *

  
John wished that Sherlock would play like this more often. He drifted from tune to tune, but they were all real songs, or sounded like it anyway, and pleasant to hear. After rambling through his repertoire for a short time, including a blistering performance of ‘Flight of the Bumblebee’, Sherlock asked a question that John had never thought to hear from him. ‘Any requests?’  
  
Mrs Hudson immediately called for a waltz, and she turned a contented eye on Molly and Lestrade when they rose to take advantage. ’Gravel doesn’t make for the best dance floor’, Greg said, ‘but it’d be a shame to waste the music.’ John and Molly surprised each other by asking for the same simple piece, remembered by each from their days in school orchestra. Lestrade shrugged and mumbled, ‘Ah, you know, just something sweet.’  
  
In the pause after the satisfying of that vague request, Mrs Hudson turned to Mycroft. ‘What about you, Mycroft? What would you like to hear?’  
  
‘Actually’ he said, rousing himself and setting aside a near-empty wine glass, ‘I do believe it’s time for me to be going.’ He started to rise, a grim expression on his face, but he stopped at hearing the first notes just emerging from the violin. He looked frankly surprised as he eased back into the chair.  
  
After a few measures, John recognized the music as something he heard Sherlock playing from time to time, always in small snatches, never seeming to finish. It was bold and passionate and wild, and the company were all mesmerised by the music and the way Sherlock played, his whole body possessed by the sound and the making of it.

John looked once to see Mycroft leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, as enraptured by the music as Sherlock seemed to be. He had seen many expressions on the man’s face, from annoyance to disdain to malicious delight, but he had never seen a look of such honest pleasure.  
  
It was midnight before anyone thought again about leaving.  
  
It was then that Mrs Hudson, having just jolted awake from her second unintended nap, began collecting some empty glasses onto a tray. ‘Stay as long as you like’, she said, ‘but I think it’s time I turn in.’  
  
John stopped her from taking the tray. ‘Leave everything where it is. Sherlock and I will take care of it.’  
  
‘We will?’  
  
‘Sherlock.’  
  
Sherlock sighed. ‘I’m sure it will all find its way home somehow.’  
  
‘I’ll help’, Molly said, and then everyone was standing, stacking plates and emptying glasses, consolidating leftover food, and thanking Mrs Hudson for a lovely evening.  
  
‘This really is beautiful’, Molly said. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if every roof had a garden? There ought to be some sort of law or something.’  
  
Mycroft looked considering a moment, then said, ‘I doubt it would pass the vote.’ He bade good-night to everyone and left. John just caught the second that his hand rested on Sherlock’s arm as he passed by.  
  
When the others had gone, Mrs Hudson to her bed, Lestrade to drive Molly home, insisting that she shouldn’t have to call a cab at that late hour, John and Sherlock remained to see to anything that couldn’t wait until morning. They had both carefully avoided any mention of the previous night’s conversation. Indeed, outside of Sherlock’s comment on psychotherapy, they had done a perfect job of remaining neutral toward the world and each other all night.  
  
But now, in the undark of the city, a lively evening and thirty non-alcoholic hours behind him, John suddenly felt tired and stretched too taut. Sherlock saw the exhaustion in his eyes just as plainly as he had seen each time John had worked against the habitual desire for a drink that night.  
  
As he nestled his violin into its case, he sifted through ideas on how to bring John relief.  
  
‘John, I know what I said last night was… well, a bit—’  
  
‘It’s fine.’ John swallowed thickly. ‘It’s OK. I mean, I— I understand why you… did all that. Said all that.’  
  
‘You do?’  
  
John nodded, then took in the odd look on Sherlock’s face. ‘Do you?’  
  
‘Do I what?’  
  
‘Understand why you did all that.’  
  
‘Of course,’ Sherlock shrugged casually, then looked the question at John. ‘Sentiment?’  
  
John half chuckled. ‘Yeah, sentiment.’ He looked up at his friend and told him plainly: ‘Sherlock, you care.’  
  
Sherlock appeared to consider that, then file the information away. John, not prepared to have emotional conversations with anyone while he was also determined not to drink away the stress of it, turned and took a step away. He stopped at Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, looked back at Sherlock’s too-serious face.  
  
‘Always will’, Sherlock assured him.


End file.
